


Somebody Loved

by dracoqueen22



Series: War Without End [3]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Angst, Background Character Death, Canon Typical Violence, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Prequel, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a ship packed beyond capacity, Sunstreaker is the only one who doesn't share his berth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody Loved

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Somebody Loved," by the Weepies which is sorta the theme song for Sunny and Hound in this series.

Sunstreaker doesn't share a berth.   
  
He doesn't like the sound of another mech's systems close to his, or the off-rhythm stutter of ventilations. He doesn't like their smell, their field, or the bare brush, the grating brush of metal on metal.   
  
He doesn't share a berth and he doesn't like to be touched.   
  
Space is rare on the _Wayfarer_ , their quarters cramped, and Sunstreaker is the only one who recharges alone. He doesn't mind the cold silence. It matches his spark where Sideswipe used to be and isn't because he's not here. He's so far away he could be dead and Sunstreaker wouldn't even know it.   
  
He sits by himself in the dispensary, refuels during the off-shift when he can, and spends his free joors polishing himself to a fine sheen. Sometimes he lets Prowl convince him to play a game of Balancers but mostly, Sunstreaker is alone.   
  
They are no closer to finding Prime or the Allspark than they have been in the past hundred vorns since they left Cybertron. Since they took on the perilous task of drawing away the Decepticon forces, if only to give their Prime a chance.   
  
They are nine when they used to be twelve. There are empty berths that no one uses. Out of respect? Out of nostalgia? Who knows?   
  
There is one designation they dare not whisper. The guilt weighs too heavily.   
  
Sometimes, Sunstreaker doesn't recharge at all. He stares into the dark and it moves, shadows becoming shapes becoming dead mechs becoming nightmares. He doesn't move because they might attack. He knows they aren't real but sometimes, his battle protocols aren't sure. Sometimes, he cycles up and has to dial back down before he attacks.   
  
He and his crewmates continue to search space endlessly.   
  
They clash with Decepticons.   
  
They dwindle to six. Sunstreaker still recharges alone. He passes by empty rooms, empty berths, feeling the echo of the mechs who once lived there.   
  
Sunstreaker wonders if he's going mad. He cleans his blaster, sharpens his blades, and stares at the polished weapons. His spark whispers treachery in the cold silence. Betrayal even.   
  
Surely Sideswipe is dead.   
  
They land on Parnapa, a moon in the Lexia quadrant, orbiting a dense planet that shows no outward signs of life. The Decepticons follow them, riding their vapor trail, like they have from the orn the _Wayfarer_ left Cybertron. In this, at least, Sunstreaker and his crewmates have met success.   
  
This time, however, the Decepticons have a gestalt with them. Where they picked it up, no one knows. Prowl hadn't anticipated it and the shock is written into every line of his face and every rigid hinge of his sensory panels.   
  
Sunstreaker and his crewmates are outnumbered. Worse, they are outgunned, underenergized, and they claim only the barest vestiges of hope.   
  
There's something here with enough power in it to make energon to last them for orns. The Decepticons know it, too. They want it, perhaps more.   
  
Fear is only a construct of a weaker processor. Fear is for mechs who are wary of the unknown.   
  
The gestalt combines immediately, rising over them and casting a shadow on the _Wayfarer_. It roars, massive hand reaching, reaching.   
  
Prowl isn't looking. Prowl has his back turned, bent over Windcharger, trying desperately to keep the minibot's spark from guttering. He's not a medic. No, their medic was crushed five vorns ago, but he's trying. He's trying so hard to save them all.   
  
Sunstreaker knows that much. He steps in the way; he intercepts. He braces himself.   
  
There is pain. There's always pain. The malodorous odor of scorched circuits, burning energon, and half-melted armor. His vents spatter coolant, sticky and clogged with filth.   
  
He's dropped his blasters. Sideswipe is going to be so slagged at him.   
  
There is noise, a cacophonous assault on his audials. Yelling and clashing and roaring and the screech of metal against metal, blade against blade, the boom and thrum of charged blasters, pedes in lifeless dust.   
  
There is darkness enveloping him whole, not silent like his single berth, but raucous and disturbing.   
  
They'll be five now, Sunstreaker muses. Dwindling down, one by one. Hah, he thinks. Serves them right, serves all of them right. They left Cybertron to rust so it is only fitting that they should do the same.   
  
Something is buzzing in his audials.   
  
Sunstreaker lazily swats at it. Go away, Sideswipe. Let him recharge, frag it. He's so tired.   
  
His hand is warm. Why? His fingers twitch and something answers back, something firm that refuses to surrender.   
  
Sunstreaker always recharges alone.   
  
He onlines with a start, lashes out, talons rending and swords sliding free with the stench of hot metal and screaming battle protocols.   
  
And Hound apologizes, relief in his optics and a rend in his chestplate. His armor is gashed, a few cut circuits gleaming through, pink dripping down.   
  
“Sorry,” Hound says, but he can't hide his field or the way it ripples against Sunstreaker with heavy, heavy relief. “Sorry.”   
  
There's energon on Sunstreaker's hand, Hound's energon. He retracts his talons, cycling back down, ventilations rapid and off-rhythm.  
  
He's not dead. How is he not dead?  
  
“How many?” Sunstreaker rasps, vocalizer clicking intermittently from disuse.   
  
“Six,” Hound says, one hand touching the gash on his chestplate before dropping it again. “Still six.”   
  
Thank Primus.   
  
Sunstreaker's abused frame protests. His hydraulics lose the battle against gravity and he wobbles. Hound is there, suddenly, easing him back to the berth, touching him.   
  
It is familiar somehow and Sunstreaker's fractured processor stumbles on why.   
  
He looks down, at the blunt fingertips pressed against his chestplate, steadying him.   
  
“Your hands,” Sunstreaker says, remembering warmth and pressure dragging him back from the welcome abyss.   
  
Hound startles, draws back. “Sorry.”   
  
“No. They're warm,” Sunstreaker says, and it clicks.   
  
Hound cycles his optics and then, he smiles. “Yeah,” he says, field rippling and wafting and filling the small space between them. “They are.”   
  
For the first time, Sunstreaker doesn't recharge alone.   
  


***


End file.
